


Restraint

by Karari



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: M/M, Omorashi, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-21
Updated: 2016-04-21
Packaged: 2018-06-03 16:04:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,201
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6616966
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Karari/pseuds/Karari
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson's capacity for restraint is a little lacking.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Restraint

**Author's Note:**

  * For [d_b_w](https://archiveofourown.org/users/d_b_w/gifts).



“You will agree with me, Doctor, that being able to restrain oneself in this matter has multiple advantages,” Holmes said, pacing leisurely in front of the chair into which Watson was nestled.

Watson huffed through his nose. His position was quite uncomfortable on its own – sprawled on the bare chair with his neck and upper back bent against the backrest, his hands gripping the sides of it, and his legs hooked over the armrests – and it was made even more inconvenient by the fact that he was naked from the waist down, exposed to Holmes' imperturbable scrutiny, with his half-hard cock resting curved towards his navel and twitching with the maddening need to relieve himself.

He made a feeble, strangled sound, but Holmes expected a coherent, verbal reply. “Y-yes, it most certainly has.”

“For example, you shall not suddenly be in need of using the bathroom during one of our pursuits,” Holmes suggested.

To which Watson replied “yes,” in a quivering voice, as he remembered a certain incident (which he had failed to include in the case it belonged to), and the need to just let it go sent yet another shiver to his lower body.

His hips jerked involuntarily, and heat pooled in his cheeks, even though he was far from feeling hot. The fireplace was out despite the fact that the early November fog had brought with it a biting chill. Holmes had opened the window, too, if just a slit, so that from time to time a cutting breeze wafted in, tickling Watson's bare bottom, making him even more desperate to relieve himself. Holmes took up the tea-cup standing on the round table next to his armchair, a leftover from breakfast. The tea itself had to be freezing cold, Watson thought, only to curse inwardly at the effect the notion had on his strained body. 

Holmes brought the cup to his lips and drank it all down. A trickle of the tea escaped down his chin as he did – no doubt on purpose – and he stuck his tongue out to catch it. He licked his lips and heaved a hearty sigh when he was done. 

Watson groaned. Once again his urge racked his body. He stiffened, his toes curling and he pushed his hips up, his legs flying up in the air as he tried to squeeze his thighs together.

“Keep your legs splayed, my friend,” Holmes instructed, firm.

He kept staring at Watson until Watson complied. He made to grab the Persian slipper to refill his pipe, but quickly decided against it. He crossed the room, letting his pants brush against Watson's foot on purpose once he was near him. It was but a feathery touch, but sent one more spasm of need up from his foot to his groin. The first tears stung his eyes, while he writhed ever more desperately. Holmes circled the chair and bent over him from behind. 

“Do you really need to go, my dear Watson?” he asked, looking at him with the same calculating precision with which he inspected his clients.

Watson nodded. Dissimulating was out of the question. 

“Are your moral standards so low?”

“I –...every man has a limit,” Watson defended himself.

“But is it not admirable to persevere in one's efforts? To exercise your will and improve your resistance?”

“Yes,” Watson conceded. “But –”

Holmes silenced him with a click of his tongue. He came to stand next to him, brushing the chair, and brought his long fingers down, letting them hover over the base of Watson's cock before trailing one down his right testicle – so very slowly drawing an arch on the taut skin.

Watson whined and one tear spilled from his right eye. Holmes' finger was cold and cruel. Holmes could have pierced his flesh with multiple tiny needles and the sensation wouldn't have been any less intense. 

Holmes repeated the gesture on the other testicle, but his finger continued down, fluttering over his hole too. 

He continued like that, testing and pushing Watson's limits, until he took Watson's cock in hand and brushed his fingers on it from base to tip. The next thing Watson knew his own piss was pooling on his own belly, flowing down his sides and trickling up his chest. It hurt. Holmes hadn't allowed him to relieve himself at all since after breakfast and the fact that he was half-hard didn't help. But Holmes kept teasing his cock with the pads of his fingers and gradually the terrible pressure eased from his groin. The stream seemed to never end, diminishing then starting up again. As his body relaxed only to be flooded by a tingling relief, Watson started moaning as if he had just achieved sexual release.

His brain slowly began to function again, and began to go over all the consequences of his misdemeanour. He would have to clean the chair, scrub it thoroughly to prevent Mrs. Hudson from sniffing the evidence of their game. His shirt was ruined and so was the carpet. He would have to pack both, then go out on a expedition to get rid of them, and make up an excuse on why they needed yet another new carpet. Holmes chuckled, all too easily guessing his train of thought. Watson glared up at him.

Holmes held a pitcher of water – Watson didn't know where it had come from – and said, “drink,” as he tilted it over his head. Even in his sorry state Watson promptly obeyed, and opened his mouth. The water was cold, colder than his piss at any rate. Holmes let it rain over his face, so that it wet the front half of his hair and streamed down to his mouth. He tried to catch as much of it as he could.

Holmes seemed satisfied. 

“You have done quite well, all things considered, my dear Watson. I believe you have earned your reward,” he said genially, coming to stand on the carpet right in front of him.

Watson took a deep breath and pulled himself up, wincing slightly at the pain in his neck. He slid down from the chair onto the carpet, his knees landing on sticky wetness. His shirt stuck to his skin with a mixture of his own piss and water. His groin was completely drenched. His legs had remained dry, but kneeling at the foot of the chair changed that. 

Holmes undid the buttons of his pants, and Watson did the rest. 

He licked Holmes' cock once, turning his eyes up at him. He looked so prim, perfectly dressed and with his aquiline face scarcely disturbed by emotion. All of it glinted in his shrewd eyes and Watson set to his task with unabashed eagerness.

The wind whistled in the window. Watson shivered again, though this time it was not merely from cold. His own cock began to stir again, with pure pleasure. His mind perked up alongside it, wondering how long Holmes was going to push their game this time, if he would make him hold his piss in again, or make him drink his own.

He found, as he took Holmes' cock down his throat, that he didn't particularly mind not having a talent for deduction.


End file.
